Not Yet
by BJArthur
Summary: No, I'm not going to open my eyes. WARNING: angst, possible suicide triggers. Post-RBF. OneShot. Not in the TBMitP Universe.


raw edit, as in not Beta'd. also, be warned - thar be angst in them hills. this is probably the most depressing thing i've ever written. i mean, seriously straight up sadness, no chance of an HEA ever. i'm blaming PMS; you can, too. this has nothing to do with _**TBMitP**_. it's also written all in first person present. usually, writing like that makes me feel like i've just rolled out of bed and haven't had my first (second, third) cup of coffee yet, but it seemed to fit. please let me know if it really sucks.

* * *

No, I'm not going to open my eyes. The sun is climbing, my alarm when off half an hour ago, and if I asked, Mrs Hudson would make my tea for me. But I'm not getting out of bed, not greeting the day as I once would have. The sheets and blankets of my shell are warm, cocooning me in the dream state I don't want to leave, that blissful non-reality of _'He's still alive.'_ He has to be, you see – he couldn't possibly be… not alive (don't say that word, never say that word – don't even think it in the same sentence as him). So I suppose it isn't that I'm choosing not to open my eyes, it's that I can't. The illusion will shatter and that… _that_ will be the end of me. It's the brain that tells the lungs to breathe, the limbs to move, the skin to feel. I'll suffocate if my brain misfires, muscles atrophy, nerves die. The heart, however, functions separate of the brain. Did you know that? That's why heartbeats are the measure of life, not brain activity. It could be machines telling your lungs to breathe, your liver and kidneys to process proteins, waste and insulin – no brain waves needed at all. But if your heart's still beating, you're alive. You're a vegetable, but you're still alive.

So, while that completely undermines my argument of not opening my eyes or getting out of bed, it does explain my existence for the past year and a half. You could say that I have been barely living – heart beats but that's pretty much it. I can't eat, I can't breathe, I can't think. I do not remember what I've done, things I've said, or places I've been…. It's all one big foggy blur. Logic says that Mrs Hudson, Lestrade, Mycroft… even Molly have all been around. I'm sure they all have stopped by at one point or another so see me, but my eyes haven't seen them. All I've seen is the long, lonely road ahead of me, covered in shadows and fog without him. Conductors of light make bright lights shine brighter. What's the point when one of them is gone?

But safe under the blankets – ignoring the sun warming my face, making blood dance red behind my eyelids – I can believe he's not gone. He's in the living room typing on his laptop; he's in the kitchen shuffling experiments as he moves. Can't you hear his footsteps? Can't you hear the keys clicking out his words; glassware clanking on the table and counters? He's there – I can hear him.

He's just finished taking a shower. I know because I can still smell his soap and shampoo – that spicy-mint scent he likes. He says it helps him get focused in the morning, the menthol shock to his senses. It drifts and wafts through the whole flat, reaching all of the little corners and tight crevices; even Mrs Hudson knows when he's taken a shower. And he's made himself toast. Can't you smell the way the bread burnt just a little too much? The butter that's melted? He's there – I can smell him.

We had Indian takeaway for dinner last night. I can still taste the sweet curry in the back of my throat, under the toothpaste. It had been from that new place down the road from the Chinese place we like. We had laughed about some case we'd just finished, a presumed murder-suicide that turned out to be a double homicide. It had been so obvious who had done it that we couldn't help but giggle into our Shahi Korma. He had held a bit of his paneer for me to sample. I remember a flavour so uniquely him lingering on his fork, then on my lips, my tongue. He's there, I tell you – I can taste him.

Did you know he vibrates? Well, not _him_ really but the air around him. He is a man of action, always needing to move or be moved. Even when he's still, there's a hum. And when he is in action, oh you had better believe that those shocks you're feeling – they all come from him. It's like thunder, powerful thunder, rolling off his skin, over mine and yours and anyone else around. There's an energy to him, in him. So even if I never open my eyes again, never get out of this bed, never greet the sun, I know he's there – I can _feel_ him.

Mrs Hudson's on the stairs coming up now. I know it's her because her hip gives her a very distinctive limp, just like her 'herbal soothers' give her a very distinctive wobble. She really needn't make the trip. I know what she's going to say. It's what they all say, if I feel like hearing them.

_You've got to get up, deary. It's not healthy, this lying about all day._

_You know… this, uh, this isn't what he'd want. _

_All lives end. Yours hasn't. Now get up. _

_We need you still, down at the Yard. You know that, right?_

But I'm not going to get up. I'm not going to drink tea or help at the Yard. I am going to lie in bed and wait. I will wait until I hear the grumbling and complaining, the _'Where's the milk'_ and the Bit Not Goods. I am going to wait until I stop thinking about that day in Regents Park, about how stupid I was to think we were safe. I am going to wait until I stop dreaming about my best friend dying in my arms, his blood spraying from a sniper shot, the red slippery stuff covering my hands and chest as I try to hold the wound together. I'm going to wait until I forget how his heart stopped beating under my palms, until I forget how raw my throat felt from screaming his name. I am going to wait until I stop remembering the triumphant smirk of Sebastian Moran as he was led, handcuffed, to Lestrade's police car.

But most of all, I am going to wait until John Watson comes back to me, or until I join my blogger. Whichever one comes first. I faked my death once, and John was a constant surprise; he could have faked his death as well. And, if after three years John does not return as I had, well… I do have that fourteen percent solution in the back of my dresser.

On second thought, maybe I'll be seeing him sooner than I anticipated.

* * *

whoa! turned you right about there, didn't i? honestly, i didn't even know that was going to happen until i wrote it. and holy cow, i hope i wrote it well. this is a completely different style than i'm used to, so i have no idea how well it was carried out. if you have any suggestions on how to make it better, while still maintaining the 'Holy Moly!' ending, or perhaps how to increase the 'Holy Moly' of it, please let me know. and as always, please review and Believe in Sherlock. :) (and if you do review, don't spoil the ending!)


End file.
